


Everywhere

by RubyLipsStarryEyes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Neville Longbottom, Broken Hearts, Broken Promises, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Eventual Smut, Eventual Triad, F/M, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Fred Weasley Lives, I Tried, Idiots in Love, Love Triangles, M/M, Meddling Pansy Parkinson, Multi, Neville Longbottom is a Good Friend, POV Draco Malfoy, POV George Weasley, POV Hermione Granger, Post-War, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Sad, Secret Relationship, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Song: Everywhere (Niall Horan), Songfic, Started as a songfic, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Triad - Freeform, mentions of torture, no past Hermione/Ron, then it went rogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyLipsStarryEyes/pseuds/RubyLipsStarryEyes
Summary: Draco can't forgive himself for what he did to the woman he loved.Hermione is torn between the man that is good for her, and the one that makes her feel alive.George is in love with a broken woman.Can they fit the pieces together before it's too late?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger/George Weasley, Fred Weasley/Angelina Johnson/Katie Bell, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/George Weasley, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 167
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mariana_Monteverde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariana_Monteverde/gifts).



> This was inspired in part by the lovely people over at Hermione's Nook on facebook, and in part by Niall Horan's Everywhere.
> 
> Feels like every time I turn a corner  
> You're standing right there  
> Over my shoulder, you're everywhere  
> I swear it's hard to think  
> It's hard to breathe when you're in the air  
> I try to run, but you're everywhere I go  
> When I think I'm all alone  
> And my heart's under control  
> Why is loving you not fair?  
> You're everywhere
> 
> But the biggest thank you goes to Mariana_Monteverde, without which, this would still be hidden in the depths of my Google Docs, never to be seen by human eyes.

He ducks into the door he’s been angling for just as it begins to rain. The smell of coffee and new books combines with the petrichor, and he lets it fill his lungs. Autumn has a fast hold on the world, the summer long gone and the winter quickly approaching. Though it has been several years since he last attended Hogwarts, this time of year always reminds him of fresh starts and new beginnings. 

He shakes the droplets of rain from his hair, leaving it damp and tousled. Droplets still sparkle against the black wool of his overcoat, but he leaves it alone. The Muggle book store isn’t crowded, but he doesn’t feel like risking using magic to dry off either. It’s probably for the best, and the scent of the wet wool only improves the setting. 

He is moving towards the fiction section when a woman flies out from the biography section, running into him head long and subsequently bouncing off his chest. 

“Bloody hell!” He rubs at his sternum where the woman’s head connected, looking down to see deep mahogany hair, the rich color and smooth curls reminding him of something he can’t quite put his finger on. She has her hand on his chest to steady herself, the warmth of her hand somehow seeping through his wool coat. And then the woman looks up, her big brown eyes wide in surprise and recognition. 

“Malfoy?” 

“Bloody hell,” he repeats, staring down at the upturned face. “Granger?” 

He hasn’t seen her in... Merlin, it must be five years ago now, the last day of their eighth year. He’d left for France and she... well she’d gone to work at the Ministry; fighting for rights for those that couldn’t fight for themselves. He can’t think of anything more typically Granger; except maybe being knocked over by her in a Muggle bookshop because she’s in too much of a hurry to look where she’s going. 

“What are you doing here?” She must realize her hand is still on his chest because she snatches it back as if she’s being burned. 

“I’m buying a book,” he explains slowly, unable to tear his eyes from her face. “That is what a bookshop is for, unless I’m sadly mistaken.” 

The fire in her eyes roars to life, and he can’t help but be pleased. Some things should never change, and this was definitely one of them. 

“You know what I mean,” she snaps. “Why are you in London?” 

“Because I live here?” The subtle taunts are too easy, even after all this time, and the pink that creeps across her cheeks tells him it is just as easy as ever to get a rise out of her. “I moved back last summer,” he clarifies. 

Her lips part to speak, but she evidently thinks better of it because she quickly clamps them shut. A heartbeat later, she tries again. 

“Well it was good to see you. Bye!” She sidles past him and rushes to the checkout counter, not looking back at him. Draco makes his way back to the display, and when he looks up, he catches a glimpse of mahogany curls through the shop window as she turns and hurries away. 

He suddenly hears his mother’s voice in his head asking, “when are you going to stop punishing yourself?” 

“Apparently not today, Mother,” he mumbles to the shelf. 


	2. Chapter 2

“It was good to see you?” Ginny looked decidedly unimpressed at Hermione’s choice of parting words. 

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know what to say! I had to get out of there!” 

“You could have started with, ‘oh gee, you slimy git. Get lost.’ Or maybe ‘go die in a hole,’ or something equally... less nice.” Ginny wrinkled her nose. “But I want to know how none of us knew he was back.” 

Hermione grimaced into her wine glass, thinking her choice of white Zinfandel was far too tame. She should have just ordered a bottle of whiskey and called it a day. Though she hadn’t intended on telling Ginny any of this when she got to the pub, sitting down to wait for her friend. 

No, it all came out when Ginny showed up ten minutes later and asked her why it looked like she’d seen a vampire. In truth, Hermione would have preferred the vampire. Those were straightforward and she knew how to handle them. Malfoy... he was a far more mercurial, serpentine creature; complex and terrifyingly treacherous. 

“Oh fuck.” Hermione looked up to see Ginny’s eyes locked on the door. She made to turn, but Ginny hissed, “no! Don’t look!” But it was too late. She’d seen the flash of platinum blond hair, and she wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow her whole. Of all the pubs in London, he had to stroll into this one, not even an hour after she’d  _ literally _ run into him. 

“Ginny I can’t do this,” she moaned. “I’m moving far, far away. Like, Serbia. Maybe Tokyo. Oh I could go back to Sydney!” 

“You’re not going anywhere,” the redhead replied firmly. “Harry and Ron are going to be here any minute and we’re not going to talk about the ferret in the room.” Ginny ignored Hermione’s reproachful look, instead jumping into a very long-winded rant about the reserve keeper and how she called the starting seeker a slag in the locker room after their last match. 

Hermione appreciated her friend’s attempt at normalcy. Honestly it was probably what they’d end up talking about anyway, but Hermione was lost in a sea of grey. Truth be told she’d been lost in a sea of grey for far longer than she cared to admit to anyone, least of all herself.

She let Ginny talk until Harry and Ron showed, Ginny kissing Harry hello and punching her brother in the arm for being late. Hermione managed a small smile at both, and excused herself to the loo, hoping Ginny would take care of the ‘ferret in the room’ talk. She didn’t know if she could hear his name out loud again without retching. 

So of course fate would have it that the only other woman in the loo was the ferret’s ex-girlfriend, who probably knew everything because they were attached at the hip eighth year, as one of only four that returned for their eighth year in their house. She tried to brush it off, tried to ignore the way Pansy applied her pretty pink lipstick like the blond man in the other room hadn’t allowed Hermione’s life to be torn to shreds. It had been six years and she still had nightmares. The letters on her arm still burned and itched and nothing would change what had happened. She’d researched for months. Years, really, and nothing helped. 

“Granger,” she said cordially. 

“Parkinson,” Hermione grit out, not meeting her dark eyes in the mirror. She could feel the other girls gaze following her though, so she closed herself in a stall and waited far longer than necessary to come out. Pansy and her perfect pink lips were gone, Ginny in her place. 

“Was she a bitch? I saw her come out looking far too smug. I’m still a boss at bat-bogies.” 

Hermione shook her head. “No she barely said a word. It’s fine.” Ginny arched an eyebrow disbelievingly, but nodded. 

They headed back to their table in time for Harry to set down a round of sparkling purple shots. Hermione eyed it suspiciously, but took one anyway. 

“To leaving the past where it belongs,” he toasted, and Hermione smiled, clinking her glass against the others before tossing it back. There was no burn, just the near instantaneous light-headed tipsy feeling. Harry always knew precisely what she needed. She smiled wider, snapping her shot glass down on the table top. 

The past was indeed where it belonged. Behind her. 


	3. Chapter 3

He hasn’t seen her until Pansy comes back from the loo, looking pleased with a Slytherin smirk painted pink. 

“The Gryffindor Princess is here,” she says, a devious glint in her eye. Draco opts for careful disinterest; a casual shrug. 

“And?” 

“And you’re really going to try to tell me you don’t want to talk to her?” Pansy looks at him appraisingly. 

Another casual shrug. “She ran into me earlier.” At Pansy’s hopeful expression, he shakes his head. “Literally. She almost knocked me into a bookshelf. And there’s nothing to be said.” 

“If you say so,” she mutters, taking a careful sip from her wine glass. Draco catches sight of Potter with a handful of shots, delivering them to a table just as Granger and the Weaselette slide into the booth. 

She raises the purple concoction with the others, a shy smile on her lips. She swallows it quickly, and her smile gets bigger.  _ Good _ , Draco thinks.  _ Maybe she isn’t as broken as I thought. _ The other two, the male counterparts of the so-called Golden Trio also look fine; not hollow shells of themselves like he feared. He looks back to his own table before he’s caught staring, turning his attention to Theo, who is on his soapbox about wizarding law giving far too much leniency to pure bloods. 

“ _ You _ are a pure-blood,” Pansy reminds him, and he sighs in reply, as if she’s missing the point completely. They banter back and forth, and Draco stares into the amber whiskey at his fingertips. It’s the same color as the eyes of the girl he once loved, and he lets himself think back to that time. 

_ “Aren’t you supposed to be studying,” she teases, knowing full well she is too.  _

_ “Yes,” he tells her, “but you’re more important.” Her whiskey-coloured eyes sparkle, and she rewards him with a kiss. Her lips taste like sin and the cherry sugar quills she loves; her hands feel like heaven against his ribs.  _

“Draco?” Pansy draws him from the depths of his thoughts. Fifth year was a long time ago, he knows this. 

“I think McMahon’s theory is off base, he never used a proper control when starting trials,” he says. Theo is assuaged but Pansy narrows her eyes, knowing his thoughts aren’t on potions at all. 

“He’s right,” Daphne says indignantly. “Makes the trials useless and it’s that much longer before we can use it on people that need it.” Daphne is a healer now, which is odd to Draco. She was never as nurturing as her sister was, but Astoria died two years ago. Draco hadn’t come back for the funeral; he couldn’t face it. 

He can’t face a lot of things, it seems. It’s why he came back to London. He couldn’t face staying after the war. He couldn’t face his father’s presence when he was released from Azkaban after completing his five year sentence. He couldn’t face apologising to the survivors for what he allowed to happen in his own house. He couldn’t face the disappointment from the girl he loved, either. She’d called him a coward once. It turns out she was right. 

He’s quiet for most of the evening. He’s been gone long enough that the dynamic has shifted, and he’s not quite sure where he fits any longer. He watches as the Golden Trio and the Weaselette take more shots, throwing them back with abandon. He flinches when Granger sheds her blazer and pushes her sleeves up. The ugly brand on her arm is a painful reminder of how much of a coward he is. Even his own Mark has faded; hers never will. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, SO MUCH thanks to Mariana_Monteverde for making this possible <3

Hermione wasn’t sure how many shots she’d taken. She couldn’t quite remember why they all gathered this night in particular. But she hadn’t forgotten the blond at the table behind her. It was what was driving her to keep drinking, plus Ron seemed to be finding it increasingly entertaining that she couldn’t quite pronounce “bollocks” any longer. 

“‘Mione you don’t say it sober so it’s not like you have any practice,” Harry reassured her from across the table.

Ginny sniggered. “I hope you remember this tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell, if she does she’s going to hex us all and then obliviate us!” Ron looked properly terrified of the possibility. 

“You’d‘serve it,” Hermione slurred, glaring at them in a silent dare to contradict her. They lost her attention to a flash of platinum blonde hair across the pub, and her eyes filled with tears. “Why’d I’serve it?” Overwhelming sadness crashed over her, and she bowed her head, tracing the raised scars on her arms with a light touch. 

Ron, sitting beside her, seemed to be the only one that caught the motion. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her hand away from the old wounds. Light fingers found the scars that wrapped up his arms like vines, and silent tears dripped down her cheeks. “S’many scars,” she whispered, and Ron shared a pointed look with Harry over her curls. 

“I think it’s time we call it a night,” Harry said, sitting forward a bit. 

“Yeah we should get you home, Hermione. You’ll hate us in the morning, but I’d rather you hate us from home.” Ginny pulled Hermione to her feet, and with Harry on her other side, they made their way out of the pub. Ron paid the tab while Ginny and Harry aparated Hermione home, Ginny tucking her into bed and Harry leaving a hangover potion on her nightstand. 

“When was the last time she got that drunk?” Harry honestly wasn’t sure if she’d  _ ever  _ been that drunk. 

“The day we left Hogwarts,” Ginny said sadly. “We should have left as soon as he came in. I didn’t realize how bad it would be.” 

“How did she manage a whole year in the castle with him?” Harry looked over Hermione’s sleeping form, regret that he hadn't been there for her that year welling up from deep inside him. 

“It wasn’t easy for her. Honestly I’m not sure how she did it without killing him. I almost did a couple times and I wasn’t even at the Manor…” Ginny shook her head at her husband. “Come on. Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is really short, but I SWEAR they'll get longer, and I hope 3 in one day makes up for it! 
> 
> XOXO, Ruby


	5. Chapter 5

Draco watches them leave, Potter and the weaselette propping Granger up between them. He wonders if she always drinks like that, or if she is drinking to forget. He certainly wishes he could, but he’s tried that several times over in France with all manner of witches and wizards to assist, and never even gotten close. 

No, the memory of her screaming at his feet was going to haunt him forever. He deserves it, too. Honestly he deserves far worse, and yet here he was, in a pub on a Friday night amongst his friends. 

He stares into his whiskey some more, if only to avoid Pansy’s sharp eyes. She knows too much, and he blames himself for that. Eighth year had been hell on the four Slytherins that had returned. Draco and Pansy were openly hated, while Theo and Daphne were shunned. Too much whiskey and nobody else to talk to ensured that they all knew more than they should, but only Pansy had caught him begging McGonagall to keep him as far from Granger as possible, for her sake. 

He deserved every glare and whispered curse that came his way, but she didn’t deserve to sit across from the man that allowed her torture. That  _ caused  _ her torture. He would have made a shite Gryffindor, but he knew she’d been placed correctly because she didn’t flinch once at his presence in her classrooms. 

He still feels the sting of regret and sorrow that she’d had to endure what she did at Bella’s hands, and the guilt as they relived it every day he showed up to class. And now he was doing it again. Forcing her to relive the worst of humanity. He should have left as soon as he saw her. He should have stayed in France, far away from her. 

A flash of red has him looking up, wondering if the weaselette is back with Granger. But it’s just the remaining third of the Golden Trio, stepping away from the counter. Ron looks over at them, as if he can sense Draco’s eyes. The disgusted glare is warranted, and Draco does nothing more but lower his eyes back to his glass. He’s good for Granger, Draco supposes. He’s seen the way his arm settled around her like it’s a long-established habit. He hopes they’re happy. 

Pansy is looking at him hard again. He knows that look. It’s her “I have a plan,” look. And her plans are usually painful for someone; he suspects this one will be excruciating for him, but again, he deserves it. 

“Yes?” He aims for uninterested, and lands somewhere in the realm of strangled. 

“Nothing,” she says airily, in a way that suggests it is anything but nothing. So he rolls his eyes, finishes his drink, and calls it a night. Theo and Daphne wave him off, while Pansy watches thoughtfully. He can feel her eyes on the back of his neck. 

Back at his flat, he breathes in and out slowly, hoping the screams echoing through his mind will stop. They don’t, and he wonders aloud if they ever will. 


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione woke up the following morning with a blinding headache and a strong desire to curse whoever decided drinking last night was a good idea. She cracked her eyes to find a blue potion on the nightstand, and a glass of water beside it. After swallowing the potion and a sip of water, the headache faded to merely throbbing and she’d decided a well placed stinging jinx would suffice in place of a real curse. 

She stayed in bed much later than she’d normally allow herself on a Saturday, but as she had no plans and the tail end of a hangover, she was perfectly content to stay there. At least until she finished the book she’d picked up the evening before on Margaret Thatcher. Checking her watch, she decided she had enough time to pop by the Muggle bookshop she favored before dinner with Ron. 

She paused, thinking of the previous afternoon, but reasoned there was no way he would show up there  _ again _ , just one day later. It was like lightning striking the same place. No, the bookshop would be the one safe place that he most definitely wouldn’t be. 

She pulled her hair into a messy ponytail and donned an oversized sweater after a peek through the curtains revealed it was still raining steadily. She’d always rather liked the rain, especially on days like this; the gentle patter of rain was the perfect backdrop to the sound of pages turning and the feel of a warm cup of tea between her palms. 

The air was brisk, but she’d aparated fairly closely to the bookshop, and she ducked in quickly, sighing as the warmth of the shop engulfed her. It smelled like books and mocha, and she relaxed, the familiarity of the shop like a balm against the pain of old wounds. 

She retraced familiar paths around the shelves, not looking for anything in particular, just waiting for something to catch her eye. She was cradling a book, absorbed in the foreword when a startled yelp and a falling book caught her attention. She looked up into silver eyes. Silver eyes that haunted her dreams and cut her to the core. 

He broke eye contact to bend and pick up the book he’d dropped, smoothing the pages that had crumpled in contact with the floor. She stood frozen, unsure if she should flee or if he would first. She hoped to Godric it would be him, but with the book firmly in his hands, he didn’t look like he was going anywhere. 

“What are you doing here,” she hissed, finally finding her voice. 

“I think we’ve already established, I  _ live  _ here,” he drawled, rolling his eyes and a ghost of a sneer passing over his features. 

Hermione clenched her jaw, anger flaring in her chest. He’d already taken so much from her. She wasn’t going to give up her safe haven, too. “This shop, Malfoy. Why the  _ fuck _ have you shown up at this shop two days in a row?” 

Surprise flickered across his face at her vehement profanity, but she couldn’t even enjoy it. Not with him invading the small shop she’d found so much solace in after he’d left her broken, bleeding, and bereft on that floor. 

“Hermione? Is everything okay?” She belatedly realized that she’d allowed her voice to raise, and the Muggle clerk—Jonathan—approached warily. 

“It’s fine, Jonathan. This gentleman was just leaving,” she said coolly, turning on her heel and stalking away.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco stares uncomprehendingly after the witch, blinking rapidly. Jonathan glares at him, very nearly openly hostile, despite the friendly report they’ve developed over the last year and a half. Draco considers scoffing, insisting it wasn’t his fault, but somewhere deep down he knows that this is more than just her surprise at finding him in the depths of Muggle London, at a shop she evidently is a faithful patron of too; it's obvious now. Jonathan knows her by name and is protective of her. No, this is about territory, in her eyes. This is about him not belonging here. 

Jonathan probably has no idea what Granger is capable of; he thinks she’s a defenseless young woman against the unknown threat that is Draco. Unfortunately, Draco has already done his damage. So much damage. The muggle will never understand the implications of Draco’s presence, so he hands the clerk the book in his hands with a quiet, “excuse me,” and exits the shop. 

He stops on the far side of the window, peering in through the rain-spattered glass. He catches sight of her, facing away from him, her hands braced against a shelf and the muggle’s concerned face drawing closer to her. Draco’s stomach twists at the sight, but he considers for a moment that the muggle has already done more on Granger’s behalf than he ever did. The thought burns, leaving him breathless and his chest aching. 

Oh, if only his father could see him now. Outpaced by a muggle. 

Draco swallows hard and slips through the rain before she sees him staring. He wanders for a while, the sight of her engrossed in a book, her cream-colored sweater slipping off one shoulder and her hair piled on top of her head seared into his mind. She looks so… Whole. For a moment he forgets what happened, until she shifts and the last letter that had been cut into her golden skin emerges from under her sleeve. 

He knows it’s there. It’s haunted him for years, and yet somehow it is enough to make him cry out, the book tumbling from his hands. He had tried to cover his dismay with arrogance, but it feels wrong, to offer another lie, even if the lie is safe. 

The truth, Draco knows, is far more dangerous. 

Still, he can’t shake the thought that maybe just once, he can do something good for her. Something worthwhile. He’s long played with the idea of a potion to heal the scars the criss-cross his chest, and the outline of the Mark on his arm. He’s never done it, because he deserves the constant reminders of how wrong he once was. But  _ she  _ doesn’t deserve the slur carved into her otherwise blemish-free skin. 

His mind is spinning with ideas and theories as he walks home, drawing up a mental list of ingredients and possible combinations to fight not just the curses and dark magic that made the scars, but the scar tissue itself. There are so few potions that even come close to what he wants, but he’s never let that stop him before.

It may be a long shot, but if he does anything with the rest of his life, he hopes it will let her heal. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for TheUltimateUndesirable! 
> 
> And as always, so much thanks to Mariana_Monteverde <3

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re still really pale…” Jonathan hovered over her, and she resisted the urge to snap at him to leave her alone. His concern was sweet, if not poorly timed. 

“I really am okay. I just wasn’t expecting to see him here.”

“So you know Draco?” Jonathan looked hesitantly curious. 

“I went to school with him,” Hermione said, resigned to the questions her outburst garnered, and then paused. “How do you know his name?” 

“Oh. So, what? He’s an ex that did you wrong?” Jonathan joked, but Hermione’s stomach twisted. It must've shown on her face because Jonathan immediately looked guilty. “Sorry. Not my business. But Draco’s here all the time. I’m a bit surprised you haven’t run into him before now, honestly…” he rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that reminded her sharply of Ron. “He may be the only customer that comes in more often than you.”

Hermione didn’t bother to try to appease him, because it wasn’t any of his business, and despite her rabid curiosity, she didn’t ask any further questions. What Malfoy did with his time and why he spent so much of it in a Muggle shop didn’t matter. Or so she told herself. 

“I should get going… My friends are waiting.” It wasn’t strictly the truth, but it wasn’t necessarily a lie, either. “Can you ring me up?” She held up the book she still held in her hands, and he took it with a look of reluctance. 

A few minutes later, after paying for her book and fending off a few poorly veiled flirtations later, she stepped out onto the street and into the cool air. She’d felt hot since the run-in with Malfoy, and she walked a bit further than strictly necessary, hoping to clear her head. She knew it was helpless though, when she caught a flash of blonde hair over the collar of a black pea coat, and nearly exploded until she realized the hair was gold, not platinum, and much too long; not to mention the figure was several inches too short and very distinctly female. 

Frustrated, she ducked down a secluded alleyway and aparated to Diagon Alley. 

“Hermione!” A tall man with flaming red hair and freckles greeted her loudly from across the florescently-coloured shop. She lifted a hand in greeting, but he caught the half-hearted wave and narrowed his eyes. 

Now that Hogwarts was back in session, the shop wasn’t overwhelmingly busy, even on a Saturday evening. She could see two patrons browsing the displays, and could hear a third giggling from behind a stack of purple and blue boxes containing the Weasley Wizard Wheezes version of the dung bomb. Lavender was also there in the employee’s magenta robes, and George jerked his head towards the back office, obviously aware of her disinclination to share the cause of her poor humor where she could be heard. 

“Fred’s doing inventory and Ron popped over to Gringotts,” he told her in a low tone as they entered the office, casting a silencing charm at the door. “He’ll be back in half an hour or so, he told me he wasn’t expecting you for another hour.” 

Hermione glanced at the clock, and realized that she was indeed nearly an hour early. 

“Is this about Malfoy?” George settled into a chair behind an overfilled desk, stacks of parchment stacked precariously over the surface. 

Over the last several years, she and George had developed a friendship, bonding over their losses and commiserating their successes. Hermione hadn’t expected to find a friend as dear as Harry or Ron in the twin, but she was glad she had. George was surprisingly understanding and gentle, despite his trouble-maker reputation. 

She wasn’t sure when she’d started, but she’d begun to measure up potential partners against the twin. She didn’t know if it was fair to other men, but it had kept her from more than a few terrible second dates. Then she’d end up telling him how awfully it had gone, and he’d remind her it was because they weren’t him. She was starting to wonder if he was correct, or if he wasn’t the only one she was subconsciously comparing them to.

Hermione leaned against the wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Ron must’ve told him about the other man showing up, and her subsequent atrocious behavior. Her rigid posture gave way under his steady gaze, her shoulders slumping and her head bowing. “That book store I loved, A Novel Idea, over in Highgate?” She waited for him to nod, and went on. “Apparently he loves it too. He was there last night and this afternoon. Jonathan said he’s there more than I am…” She shook her head, huffing a laugh through the tears that filled her eyes. “So I guess I need to find a new bookstore.” 

“Or you can take me with you, and I can run intervention,” he winked, and Hermione laughed, wiping at the tears trickling down her face with her sleeve. “Don’t let him get under your skin. He’s not worth it.” George cocked his head, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his thighs. 

“I just want to pretend I live in a world where he doesn’t exist,” she whispered. When the soft sob broke free, George was already pulling her into a hug, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping his arms around her. “It feels like he’s everywhere. I can’t escape him.” 

“What can I do?” 

George was so  _ good.  _ Not like Malfoy. George was  _ safe _ . 

“Please don’t let go.” 

In response, his arms tightened fractionally, and she melted further into him, letting the warmth of his body relax her body and mind. Far too soon though, someone knocked on the door. Hermione let go, reluctantly stepping back against the far wall while George got the door. 

“Why’s the door locked?” Ron sounded disgruntled by the ten second delay, and Hermione shook her head. So typically Ron. 

“We were talking, didn’t want to be interrupted,” George said easily, moving aside to let his youngest brother through the door. 

Ron grumbled something unintelligible, dropping the Gringotts deposit bag on the desk, but realizing it was Hermione that had been the cause of his deference, all was quickly forgiven. Fred quickly shoo’d them all off for dinner early, claiming he was fine locking up himself. 

So off they went, Lavender on Ron’s arm and Hermione trailing behind, George whispering they could aim a tripping jinx at Ron as they went. She found herself glad that he tagged along instead of spending the evening with Angelina, Fred, and Katie. She’d gotten used to being a third wheel with them, but she couldn’t deny it was much more enjoyable with George’s easy company in addition to Ron and Lavender’s. She actually managed to forget the uncomfortable encounters at the bookstore and when she returned home, her heart felt a bit lighter. 

  
The next several days were a whirlwind of meetings, reports, and paperwork, and she hadn’t had much time to think of what had happened the previous weekend. That was, until Friday night. She’d finished her book Thursday before bed, and thought she’d pop by A Novel Idea after work. It was a good idea until she lay in bed, and suddenly remembered why that was  _ not  _ a good idea. The sinking feeling in her chest made her wonder if she was going about this the right way. 


	9. Chapter 9

Friday night. Draco isn’t fond of Friday nights any longer. They’re filled with guilt, regret, and what-ifs. He’d planned to stay in, but the arrival of his mother’s eagle owl bearing an envelope addressed in her hand has changed his mind. Suddenly his spacious flat feels suffocating, and the prospect of staying there with the unopened letter and a potion he can’t get to even begin to work properly is enough to make his stomach turn. Hours upon hours just in the last week has left him short tempered and tired, and he can’t take the sight of these four walls tonight. He takes his coat, and steps out onto the street. He tells himself he has no plan, that he will find somewhere new to go, to see, to do. 

He’s lying to himself, but he allows it, at least until he passes the familiar hedges a block from A Novel Idea. Somehow he always finds himself back here, though he’s spent the last week telling himself that he needs to stay away. He pauses as the door comes into view, debating with himself. Coming to a conclusion, he shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls towards the door, casually glancing through the window. 

Seeing no riotous curls, he breathes a sigh of relief and slips inside. The warmth of the shop is welcome after the walk in the cool evening air, but even more welcome is the thought of finding another world to lose himself in. Draco has long found solace in the depths of literature, though recently he’s found that the worlds the Muggles dreamt of held a more soothing balm than that of the magical world. 

Perhaps part of it is a quiet rebellion against all that he once was, what his father still was at times. After coming back to London, he’d made it a point to spend time in the muggle world. He had been pleasantly surprised, if he was going to be honest with himself. Maybe part of it was finally experiencing the things she’d told him about, in those dark corners of Hogwarts before it had come to a screeching halt. 

Now his mother has locked herself away in the French château, away from prying eyes while Draco is doing his best to rebuild their name. He loves his mother, but she doesn’t understand why he can’t do the same. If he hides away from the past, he will be crushed by the guilt that haunts him. Sometimes he wonders how his father manages to pretend that nothing is amiss, but he always comes to the same conclusion. 

His father is simply heartless.

He doesn’t want to be anything like Lucius. He thinks of his mother, in a loveless marriage, and thinks to himself he’d rather let the Malfoy line die rather than submit a woman to that kind of hell.

Maybe it’s because he tasted love, once. Maybe it’s because the war changed him. Maybe it’s simply the thought that so much darkness could just  _ end,  _ if he so chose. Whatever it is, Draco thinks that part of the reason he’s never found solace in another’s arms is that he’s afraid to let his bloodline continue to flow…

But then his mother is unmoved. “You are the last of the Black and the Malfoy line, Draco. You have a duty,” she tells him. He doesn’t tell her that maybe his duty would be better served by stopping it. 

He picks down the line of books, his eyes flicking across covers and spines, looking for something that would captivate and quiet his mind. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees a familiar sight, but he pushes it away, thinking his mind is playing tricks on him. 

The girl he loved all those years ago isn’t watching him with sparkling eyes, waiting for him to notice her presence. She isn’t peaking through the shelves of the Hogwarts library, or memorizing his features any longer. He failed her too many times. The girl he loved was dead, crushed by the weight of his betrayal. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can’t shower Mariana_Monteverde with enough praise. This story wouldn’t be possible without her ❤️

Hermione rounded the corner, and stopped dead in her tracks. He was there, yet again. A book lay open in his hands, and she could see his eyes skating over the page. She felt frozen, as if stuck in place by a body-bind. She couldn’t turn away, make herself look anywhere but at the face of the man she seemed to see everywhere. 

George had offered to come with her, and she told him it was fine, if he showed up she could handle herself just fine. He’d given her a long, hard look, but agreed that she could handle herself. It was something she’d always liked about George. He never treated her like she was fragile or helpless, unlike everyone else except perhaps Harry and Ginny. 

Now she was really wishing he was here, but he wasn’t, and she was studying Draco as he read. 

He had changed since their school years. His angular face had softened somehow, and she thought his shoulders might be a little more broad. He didn’t look up, and Hermione found herself recalling a thousand moments of glancing up from her own studies to see him engrossed in his own across the room. She found herself softening towards him, despite herself. 

They weren’t the same people anymore, were they? She certainly wasn’t the same idealist, and from what she’d heard, he was making waves in the Potioneers Guild, improving processes and recipes left and right. Evidently he’d garnered more from his tutelage under Severus Snape than she had. She’d heard he’d even been playing with the Wolfsbane Potion, making it more reliable and shelf-stable, which would do wonders for the victims that relied on it each month. 

A man that was doing all that couldn’t be the same one that allowed her to be tortured by the darkest witch of the century, could it? Was he different? Stronger? Or was he as broken as she was? 

As she grappled with herself, he evidently had made a decision and was putting the book back on the shelf. She couldn’t turn and run or hide, still frozen in place when he looked up. 

His eyes widened, in surprise, or fear, or something else entirely she couldn’t tell. 

“Granger?” Disbelief laced his voice, and Hermione lost hers. She shook her head, turning to flee the shop. “Granger, wait.” She froze, not sure what to expect or why she even stopped. She turned back to see the shock clear in his eyes. “I didn’t expect you to listen,” he said quietly.

Hermione bristled. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Do you have something to say or can I leave?” They locked eyes, and Hermione felt the familiar fire that he lit within her. Familiar still, after five years because he was the only one that could fan the embers to flames with just one look. 


	11. Chapter 11

He sees the fire light in her eyes, and before he can talk himself out of it, he steps forward, sliding a hand around her back, the other around the back of her neck. His fingers slide through the curls, and he presses his lips against hers. 

She smells like berries and something floral, and he could die in it happily. Her body is warm and supple under his hands, her hair wild but so soft. Softer still are her lips; he’s never kissed anyone with lips as soft as hers, and he doubts he ever will again. 

So he kisses her gently, savoring the chaste kiss while he can. Soon she’ll come to her senses and push him away. Soon her lips will be a memory once more. 

After all this time, she tastes the same. Like the peaches that make the jam she likes, and something so delicious that he’d spent the last several years searching for it and never finding it with anyone else. It was  _ her _ . 

Her lips are so familiar against his, the way she fits against him feels as if a missing piece is slotting into place. Her hands slip around his waist, pulling him closer. Something deep inside wants to cheer at the victory, but the touch of her tongue against his lip silences that part of him. He parts his lips, capturing her bottom lip and swallowing the gasp that escapes her. 

Her arms tighten, and he buries his hand deeper into the sweet-smelling curls that were longer and more tame than they’d been in school. He deepens the kiss, and she welcomes it, caressing his tongue with her own.

Their kisses had begun as a fight for authority, neither submitting control to the other. As time went on, their battle morphed into a dance, with each one leading and following in a choreographed rhythm; a rhythm that neither had forgotten. Each takes their places willingly, and it’s as if no time has passed at all. 

The ache in Draco’s chest eases with each whispering breath that passes between them, her hands loosening the painfully tight bands that have held him captive for so long. 

A bell jingles somewhere behind them, announcing the arrival of a new patron to the bookshop. Draco barely hears it, but Hermione jerks back at the tinkling sound. Her hands are still on his sides, under his coat, and his are still wrapped around her, cradling her as he would a fragile, priceless antique; so very carefully. 

Her eyes meet his, the fire replaced with an earth-shattering fear and sorrow. The triumphant crowing in the back of his mind is crushed, and when the tears well up, he wants nothing more than to draw her closer but she’s already backing away. He releases her, immediately mourning the loss of her from his arms. 

“Why would you do that?” She sounds broken again, and Draco wonders if he will only ever continue to break her. 

He doesn’t have an answer that won’t shatter her further, so he stays silent despite the urge to tell her everything.  _ The truth is far more dangerous _ , he reminds himself,  _ even if the lies aren’t as safe as we were led to believe.  _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the longest chapter yet, but I’ve been chomping at the bit to get it out. 
> 
> Many thanks to Mariana_Monteverde, as always for being the best friend and cheerleader helping me along 💙💚

Hermione found herself walking up to a familiar door, tears still streaming down her cheeks. The sharp staccato rap of her knuckles echoed too loudly in the quiet evening, and she cringed. It was Friday night, what was she thinking? Was he even home? What if he had company? She turned away from the flaking slate blue paint, wondering where she could go from here. 

“Hermione!” Hinges squeaked as he pulled the door open, and she froze mid step. Peeking through her hair, she found George framed in the doorway, bright light spilling out from behind him, like the warmth of the sun in the cold night. She froze, the feeling of being safe within reach, but uncertainty of his reception dragging her away like a riptide would tear her from the safety of a beach.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—“ A sob bubbled up, and he reached for her, his feet bare on the still-damp cobblestone walkway. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Come in.” A solid arm around her shoulders led her into the cozy flat, and she registered the lone glass on the coffee table next to a stack of order forms. He’d been alone. 

He sat her on the sofa closest to the fire, and it wasn’t until he sat beside her and covered both of her hands in his that she realized she was shaking. The realization cut through her, and the dam broke. The trickle of tears became a torrent, and she doubled over, the sheer magnitude of her emotions threatening to tear her apart. 

George just wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to his chest and let her cry. She felt him stroke her hair, easing the ache left by Draco’s tender touches. He didn’t ask, but he never had been the type to pry. Not the nights before she returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year, or the days that followed.

Part of her felt as if she should be ashamed of the emotional onslaught, but not once had he made her feel lesser for it. He didn’t make light of her tears like Fred, or brush past them like Ron. He simply gave her the space to  _ feel, _ all the while being the calm, steady support he always was. He was unwavering, dependable; she could count on him like she could count on the sun rising each morning and setting in the evening. 

When her cries quieted, he swiped slow, steady strokes over her back until her lungs matched his rhythm. She felt drained, and so tired, but he kept up his gentle ministrations without interruption until she drifted to sleep. 

Rain pattered against the window when she woke. She kept her eyes tightly closed, relaxing into the warmth that surrounded her. It smelled like cedar and citrus, warm and comforting and she sighed happily. The answering chuckle had her eyes popping open, and she gasped. 

“Good morning to you too,” George murmured, yawning widely. She was curled into his chest, his arm curled around her waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be waking up next to her after she’d cried herself to sleep on him the night before. 

His hold tightened briefly as he opened his eyes, a sleepy smile warming the pools of clear blue. Her heart jolted, and then took off at a breakneck pace, gooseflesh erupting from where his hand rested in the curve of her waist. His hand was warm and she liked the way it curled possessively… She liked it a little too much considering who the hand was attached to. 

“Morning,” she breathed, her brain whirring a million miles an hour at the implications of the last twelve hours. The most pressing concern was the flutter she felt as her hand rested against his chest, heat radiating through the thin cotton of his t-shirt going straight to her cheeks. 

George had long been a friend. The brother of her best friends. He was off limits. This was just rebound feelings from Draco, wasn’t it? He shifted, stretching around her. He’d always been more thickly built than Ron or Draco, and it was painfully clear as his muscles rippled beneath her light touch. 

“I’m sorry—,” 

“Don’t be. Coffee or tea?” 

His blasé approach made her pause, looking curiously up at him. 

“You used to drink coffee every morning but I’ve only seen you with tea for a while now. I wasn’t sure if you’d stopped drinking coffee,” he yawned again, reaching up to ruffle his hair. 

She blinked. He was right. She’d stopped drinking coffee because it reminded her too strongly of Draco. “Tea is fine.”

He nodded, looking unperturbed at her awkward uncertainty. 

“I didn’t mean—“

“Hermione,” he cut her off again. “Please stop worrying. You didn’t interrupt anything last night, it’s fine you fell asleep, I don’t mind in the slightest. You obviously had a pretty bad day and I just hope I helped a bit.” 

She snapped her mouth shut. How’d he known exactly what she was going to say?

“You helped a lot,” she whispered. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” He flashed an easy grin, and twisted up into a sitting position. She struggled to copy his movements, tangled in the inordinately soft blanket that smelled like him. He helped pull her up before standing and stretching fully. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed to miss just how fit George was, but when he lifted his arms and the hem of his shirt lifted to give her a glimpse of his Adonis belt, she quickly averted her eyes, resisting the urge to hide her face in the blanket. 

He bent over, grabbed his wand and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to her forehead. He was already two steps away, his wand stilling in the air from where he’d started the kettle when he stopped, turning back to find Hermione frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. “Shit. I’m sorry I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—“ 

“It’s okay,” she whispered. And it was, even if her heart was pounding in her ears and her skin burned where his lips had come into contact. 

Awkward silence stretched between them until the kettle began to whistle. Hermione wasn’t sure who moved first, but George headed to the kitchen to attend the kettle, and she sprang towards the bathroom. 

She slumped against the closed door, the face in the mirror across from her showing her confusion clear as day. On one hand, there was Draco… on the other… there was clearly some kind of chemistry with George. But while what she had with Draco was explosive and exciting, like the cork shooting from a champagne bottle, whatever it was with George was steady and shimmering, like the effervescence of the champagne after it’s been poured. 

But George was dating Angelina. They’d been together for ages, and she wasn’t going to come between them. She couldn’t. 

She stared at her reflection for far too long, before shaking herself and splashing water across her face. The cold water helped her calm enough to complete some semblance of her morning routine, albeit a very pared down and rushed one. By the time she finished, she exited the bathroom to find back on the sofa, a cup of tea waiting for her beside him. 

He flashed a smile, though Hermione thought she caught a glimmer of hesitancy beneath it. He pulled the blanket aside, making room for her on the sofa beside him. She paused, shifting her weight uncomfortably.

George looked up, scrutinizing her every move. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t— You—“ she swallowed hard, her throat dry. “You’re with Angelina and I don’t…” She trailed off as he shook his head. 

“Angie’s great, but we’re not together.” 

Hermione couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. “But last week I saw her kissing—“

“How close were you?” 

“Across the orchard, we were coming back from—“

“Then you missed the second ear.” George grinned and pointed to his missing left ear. Hermione blushed scarlet. 

“But Katie…”

“Was probably waiting her turn.” He chuckled as Hermione’s expression melted into one of utter confusion. 

“They’re a triad.” He waited patiently at her blank look before she cocked her head curiously. “They’re all in a relationship with each other. I’m around a lot and people just assume, and it’s easier not to correct them.” George shrugged. “I can start, though. They don’t keep it a secret. Mostly a matter of people realizing Angie’s not kissing me.” 

He winked, and heat crept up Hermione’s neck again. Her cheeks grew even hotter when he realized what he was saying. He was asking her if she wanted people to know he wasn’t involved with Angelina, leaving him as a free agent. She shifted on her feet again, and realized that her feet were freezing. 

It was like George read her mind, because he patted the seat next to him again, holding the blanket up for her. This time she only hesitated for a moment. 

Curling up in the seat beside him, she tucked the blanket back around her, making it clear he hadn’t scared her off. Cradling the warm cup in her hands, she had the thought that maybe this wasn’t as scary as she’d thought before. Maybe it was the start of something…  _ good.  _


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones for GCgreywriter and everyone else at the Paneville Support Group on Facebook. 
> 
> Many thanks to Mariana_Monteverde and TheUltimateUndesirable for their support and unending sass.

Draco watches her disappear behind a shelf again, the urge to run after her, to ask her to stay, to tell her the truth nearly overwhelming. Instead he lets her go, exiting the shop and carefully turning in the opposite direction and aparating to Pansy’s. 

She answers the door in her dressing gown, her hair in disarray. Draco tries not to dwell on what this means, and who is lurking in her bedroom. 

Pansy looks decidedly unimpressed, but lets him in anyway. 

“What did you do?” 

“What makes you think I did anything?” 

“You show up, unannounced, looking like a kicked crup. Of course you did something.” 

Draco scowls at his oldest friend, and she smiles sweetly. 

“Do I need to go untie Nev?” 

Draco tries not to gag at the thought. 

“Pansy,” a deep voice warns from the hall, as a tall, broad shouldered man comes into view. In a pair of grey joggers and a faded Holyhead Harpies t-shirt, Neville Longbottom isn’t the boy Draco remembers stealing a remembrall from. No, this man is confident and self-assured, and Draco can’t help but glance away as he takes his place at Pansy’s side. Her arm slips around him even as his come around her, and Draco wonders if he’ll ever have that again. 

“Hullo, Draco.” Neville eyes him warily, and Draco can’t blame him. 

“Longbottom.” 

“Tea or whiskey?” Pansy asks, obviously already impatient with the posturing. Draco thinks he sees her arm tighten briefly around Longbottom’s waist, but he was busy trying to avert his eyes from the picture they made. 

“Whiskey,” Draco says, his throat growing dangerously tight. 

“Alright,” Pansy says, narrowing her eyes. “Where’d you see her?”

“Can we not do this in the bloody entry hall,” Draco snaps, and Longbottom tenses. Pansy ignores them both, just turns and leads the way into one of the sitting rooms. 

“Come on Sweet Pea,” she calls. “You too, Snap Dragon.” 

Neville and Draco make sounds of disapproval, but both are already following her lead. 

“I thought we agreed to leave that back in fifth year,” Draco grumbles to her, even as he accepts the glass of whiskey she levitates to him with a perfectly nonchalant swish and flick of her wand. 

“And we might have, if you stopped pining over a certain Gryffindor in fifth year,” she tells him, handing Neville a glass and sprawls over him on the sofa. Draco looks away as Longbottom’s eyebrows disappear into his light brown hair. 

Draco takes a long drink, even though he wants to stare into the glass, the color of her eyes in liquid fiery form. 

“So. Where was she?” Pansy is stroking Longbottom’s arm absentmindedly, and Draco drains the glass, slumping down into the armchair, an air of defeat surrounding him like thick London fog. 

“That bloody bookshop,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “She was there last week and again today and I fucked it up.” 

“Of course you did. But do share  _ how,  _ darling.” Draco can’t look at them. He knows Pansy will give him a look of pure exasperation, and there is the possibility that Longbottom is going to hex him for this as soon as he figures out who it is, but he deserves it, and won’t try to stop him. 

“I kissed her.” 

Pansy snorts. “Only you would think snogging someone in a bookshop was sexy. Is that what it is with her? The books?” 

Draco opens his eyes to glare at her, warning her to keep her mouth  _ shut.  _ She rolls her eyes, still stroking Longbottom’s arm like he’s some kind of pure-bred show cat. “You can talk with us here now, or you can fuck off and go talk to your mother.” 

He almost considers it, rather than letting Longbottom in on his secret, but he knows his mother would just tell his father, and that was a very strict  _ non option.  _ “Fine,” he sighs, closing his eyes again. “But no, books have nothing to do with it other than being a shared interest. You know there’s so much more to Granger than just  _ books.” _

Draco’s eyes snap back open when Longbottom chokes. He looks shocked, and Pansy is rolling her eyes at him. 

“Hermione?” He gasps, sputtering over his whiskey. “You snogged Hermione?” In a  _ bookshop? _ ” 

“And in every spare corner of the bloody Hogwarts castle first,” Pansy laughs, and Longbottom looks as if he’s about to have a coronary. 

“But— you— she—“ he looks helplessly at Pansy, and Draco thinks this is slightly better than the man that had swaggered out of Pansy’s bedroom with half a hard on still showing through his joggers. Though he’d prefer it if he didn’t look  _ quite  _ so appalled. 

“They were quite the item fifth year,” Pansy tells her boyfriend, and Draco shuts his eyes again. Hearing her rehash the past is decidedly not why he came. He’s honestly not sure what he had been expecting. Certainly not pity. 

“So you kissed her. Would this be considered a relapse or is this part of the 12 step program those muggles suggested…” 

“Pansy!” Draco is surprised that Longbottom dares to rebuke her, but that’s the second time since he has arrived. Maybe the man grew a backbone since he last shared a classroom with him. 

“He’s the one that refers to her as a drug, I’m just following his lead, darling.” Longbottom lets out a disgruntled noise, but allows her defense. “Fine. What did she do after you kissed her? Did she hex you to Scotland and back?” 

“She kissed me back.” Draco can hear two distinct gasps, and squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. “And then she asked me why I would do that… She was crying when I left.” 

“You left her there?  _ Crying?”  _ Longbottom sounds angry, and Draco is afraid to look. 

“It would have been worse for her if I’d stayed,” he says, his tone flat. His chest aches, as if the moment of reprieve he’d gotten while she was in his arms only redoubled the rebounding pain to make it worse. “Merlin why did I do it?” He hears the sadness in his own voice, and knows that it’s worse for her. He’d been the one to betray her, afterall. She was innocent, and he was the man that didn’t deserve her. 

“Because you’re a bloody idiot,” Pansy says, interrupting his ruminations. “I said  _ talk  _ to her, not assault her and run away. If I’d known you were going to traumatise her again, I’d have warned her last week to hex your bollocks off if you came too close.” 

“When did you see her?” Longbottom sounds a tad calmer, and genuinely curious. Maybe Pansy’s on to something with the petting. Lions are just giant house cats, after all. Even if this one did slice the head off of a giant snake. He suppresses a shudder at the thought of what he, Potter, or even any of the Weasels will do to him when he hurts her again. When, not if, because he can’t seem to do right by her, no matter what he does. 

“Me?” Last Friday night she was at the Broken Wand with the other three. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her let loose like that. Drunk Granger is quite the sight.” 

“Hermione doesn’t get  _ drunk.”  _ Longbottom is beginning to sound angry again. “Not after the night we left Hogwarts. She swore up and down she’d never drink like that again--” 

“It was the last time she saw me.” Draco interrupts, feeling tired and drained. “The night we left Hogwarts was the last time she ever had to see me.” He rubs at his eyes, wishing he’d stayed in France. There he couldn’t keep hurting her. “Fuck, Pans! I should have left. The second I realized she was there I should have left.” He sits bolt upright, looking desperately towards her. 

She is staring steadily back at him. “What would that have changed? Drinking that night was  _ her  _ choice. Did you influence that choice? Perhaps. But you sure as hell didn’t make her do anything. She’s obviously fine if you ran into her today. You need to stop making everything you do about  _ her.”  _

“I don’t make everything about her,” he protests weakly, and her stare cuts through him like a knife. “And I ran into her the next day, too.” 

Pansy stares at him, her expression inscrutable. “Please Merlin tell me you aren't  _ stalking _ her. Then I’ll really have to warn her off of you, and do you know how awkward that would be? ‘Oh hello, Granger. Long time no see, but it seems our mutual ex-boyfriend has lost his bloody marbles and is now following you. And your friend and my current boyfriend would kill me if I knowingly let anything happen to you.’ I’d rather eat a flobberworm.” 

Again both men make sounds of disapproval, but she nods, as if they’ve made her point for her. Which, Draco supposes they have. 

“I’m not going back to the bloody bookstore,” he finally resolves aloud. Pansy looks as if she doesn’t believe him, and Longbottom looks as if he’s plotting Draco’s untimely demise. Draco still can’t blame him. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wouldn't exist without the genius that is Mariana_Monteverde, so many, many thanks to her because this is one of my favorites yet!

Waking up next to a pretty witch is always a good thing. But waking up next to the witch I’ve been head over heels for Merlin knows how long is probably one of the best realizations I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some bloody great ones over the years. 

My neck was protesting something awful, but all that sweet, soft hair in my face made every stiff neck I’ve ever had worth it. Some witches aren’t pretty sleepers, that’s just a fact of life, but Salazar’s saggy tits she was just as lovely that sleepy Saturday morning as she was all dolled up for every wedding, ball, and party I’d ever seen her at. 

I had Hermione Granger in my arms and mate, if that wasn’t the Muggle definition of magic, I don’t know what was. Well... Actually, I take that back. The real magic came later. 

After I’d mistakenly kissed her forehead because apparently sleepy Hermione Granger makes my brain switch off, and after I’d managed to not laugh like a madman trying to explain that my brother’s girlfriend wasn’t mine. It was after she curled up on the sofa next to me and spent the wide majority of the day helping me with order forms because she’d distracted me the night before. 

She never did tell me what had her knocking on my door crying like the night her kneazle had died, but I had a fairly good idea he was blond, and his nickname started with f and rhymed with carrot or trucker, depending on who you asked. I didn’t like seeing her cry like that, but it just tickled my fancy that I was obviously the first one she thought to come to. Over Ickle Ronnikins or even Harry. 

But back to the magic. I heard that being able to cook well was something that witches really enjoyed, and I wasn’t Molly “The Battalion Cook” Weasley’s son for nothing. I can make a mean spaghetti bolognese. Mind you that’s one of the few things I can get right, but it seemed to impress her nonetheless. Or maybe it was the wine. 

Either way, her eyes were sparkling across the table, and her fingers tangled in mine like she owned me. She did, she had for some time. Own me, that is. It’s impossible to be in close proximity to someone as brilliant and beautiful as Golden Girl Granger and not fall for her. Hell, I’d been stealing looks at her since the Quidditch World Cup where she’d seamlessly integrated herself into not just my family but my mind. 

I’d found it nearly impossible to get her out of my head, and it had really only been Fred that kept me from ripping Krum’s head off for allowing her to be used against him in the Tournament. It had been a much closer call when I’d found out my idiot kid brother had made her cry at the ball. And then when I’d found out he’d left them that year they’d been on the run. And then for making her doubt going back to Hogwarts for her final year. 

Honestly Ron made my shit list a lot there for a few years. Now he was married and much less likely to act like an utter fuckwad, we got on quite a bit better. I think Fred counted himself as the real winner though, not having to intervene every time Ron acted like a right arse. But I’d always been the protective one. Fred was too, but he was more likely to call attention to it by cracking a joke, where I was content to watch and intervene quietly. I was still proud of hexing Dean Thomas’s balls bright blue when he’d messed with Gin. Though apparently it had won Seamus Finnigan over for him, so maybe he should be thanking me. But enough about the bloke’s bollocks. 

I was across the witch of my LITERAL dreams and she was laughing and that in that moment, I swear to every god to grace the world, I saw our future. Hermione didn't put any stock in divination, and I was widely indifferent… But I knew what I saw, what I felt, what I  _ knew.  _ A thousand or more nights like this. The good, the ugly, the better, the worst, and the absolute best. But there was something missing, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. 

Something told me it didn’t matter much, that maybe it wasn’t yet time, or that it was still coming? That part was fuzzy. What was perfectly clear was that I couldn’t take another day without being claimed as hers. You can’t claim the moon for your own, she graces you with her light and guides you across the sea of life if she so chooses. And mercy did I want to be chosen. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

I take back my earlier statement.  _ Sleepy _ Hermione Granger doesn’t switch my brain off. Hermione works that cruel magic all on her own. And I would happily die in it if she just looks at me like she did just then. All big doe eyes and full lips parting like she can’t get enough air. It wasn’t the suave line I’d pictured to get here, but honestly I wasn’t going to complain because she was fucking  _ nodding.  _

I’d like to pause here and point out that I’ve kissed a fair few witches. But  _ none  _ of them made me as nervous as the petite witch in front of me with a halo of curls and a heart of pure Gryffindor gold. And not  _ one  _ of them had stood, come around the table, and slid into my lap without breaking eye contact for a moment like she had. 

But then she was closing her eyes and I was leaning in and let me tell you, our Wildfire Whizz-Bangs looked like fucking dying embers next to the fireworks that came when I finally got to kiss her. Her lips were softer than I ever imagined (and I imagined it quite a lot over the preceding decade or so) and her hands were in my hair and on my neck and that’s when my brain  _ truly  _ turned off. 

I’d lost count of how many times I’d wrapped my arms around her, but it was like holding her for the first time all over again. She fit so nicely there, like her curves were made for me to mold myself to. I kissed her until I was dizzy, and then I kissed her a bit more, just to be sure she’d be properly snogged. 

“George.” 

My name on her lips was its own kind of magic. She’d always been able to tell Freddie and I apart, and I still didn’t know how, before the Ear Incident of 1997. But there, with her in my lap and her lips hovering over my remaining earlobe… Gods I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. 

“Please don’t let go.” 

Honestly letting go hadn't even crossed my still out-of-commission mind, but at her request, I wouldn’t have let go for the world. But that didn’t mean I was going to stay in the rather uncomfortable dining chair. So I tightened one arm around her back, hooked the other under her knees, and swept her in circles until we reached the sofa. 

She giggled like mad, and I would have spun her in circles for a millennia if she’d let me, like the sun and moon’s eternal dance around the earth. 

“George!” She gasped between those adorable giggles and her arms tightened around my neck, and I kissed the end of her nose. 

“I didn’t let go,” I told her, and her smile was blinding. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her smile like that, but I decided right there that I’d do anything to keep it there for as long as I could. 

“No, you didn’t.” She sounded awed, like she hadn’t actually believed I wouldn’t let go, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it was me she was questioning, or a ghost of her past. It didn’t much matter, because I’d already vowed to help to make her whole again, no matter what it took. 

I knew she was broken. We were all broken, after the war that stole our adolescence and our carefreeness of youth. I’d gotten off relatively easy, only losing an ear and some friends, and some of my devil-may-care tendencies. She’d suffered greater losses- her parents, her idealistic outlook on the world, and I think this was the worst one— someone had ripped away her ability to trust. 

I suppose I’m lucky. I’d been planted firmly in the “trusted” field before that had happened. If I hadn’t been, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I wouldn’t be holding her in my arms now. 

So when I settled us back on that sofa, I looked her dead in the eye (I’m a Gryffindor too, don’t you forget it) and told her I was hers. Heart, body, mind, and soul. It probably would have been enough to scare anyone else off, but not my goddess. 

No, she reached up and pushed my hair away from my forehead, and told me in no uncertain terms that if that was the case, we should probably tell my family before it got out, which meant the next days’ Sunday dinner was going to be spent under scrutiny. 

The fact that she was charging headfirst into the fray with a wicked smile and the sweetest kisses known to man…. If I hadn’t been already, I’d have been a goner. This woman was bloody perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And THERE'S our George! 
> 
> Every comment and kudos means the world to me! Thank you for the love!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know its coming, but SO MANY THANKS to Mariana_Monteverde.

Tuesday morning, Hermione sat at her desk at the ministry, absolutely fuming over the proposal before her. It had been denied before it had even reached the Wizengamot, and now she didn’t know what to do next. 

She was on the verge of throwing it at the wall in a fit of frustration when the door to her office creaked open, and a scarlet-clad arm appeared as the person paused and she heard low voices outside the door. 

“Go away, Harry.” She couldn’t bear the looks of pity or curiosity that he’d shot her the entire time she’d been at the Burrow with George Sunday afternoon. Pity because Ginny had obviously told her husband of the last time she’d gotten so drunk, even if they didn’t know the entire reason behind it. 

As far as she knew, they’d all assumed it was the torture on the floor of his family home that led to her staunch avoidance of Draco. Crookshanks had been her only confidante where Draco had been concerned, and her secret had died with him just after she’d started at the Ministry. 

Curiosity was a whole other beast, though. Saturday she’d spent the entire day with George, and when he’d kissed her that night, something had settled in her chest. Part of her had feared that he was a rebound, that she was latching onto him because he was everything Draco wasn’t. Safe was the word that bounced around her head to describe him, and she was terrified that she’d end up breaking his heart. 

But then he’d kissed her, there in his kitchen. It was sweet and gentle until it had erupted into a blazing inferno that consumed her. He put the noon-day sun to shame. The weight of his emotion had been conveyed so honestly that it hadn’t surprised her when he’d broken the kiss and looked deep into her eyes, and she felt something slide into place, like a missing piece of her heart had been found in him. They’d agreed to tell his family the next day at Sunday dinner, and Hermione had gone home feeling more settled than she had in ages. 

When they’d arrived at the Burrow hand in hand, Arthur had seemed the most surprised. Even Harry had taken it in stride, and after the initial shock had worn off, joked that she’d given in to Molly’s wishful thinking far earlier than he thought she would. Hermione had shaken her head and smiled, but she didn’t miss Harry staring her down over pudding or the thoughtful glances she got when George wrapped an arm around her after dinner, their fingers laced together as they walked through the orchard.

She knew that Harry meant well, but it really wasn’t something she wanted to talk about at the moment. She was pleasantly surprised however, when the head that was attached to the sleeve of the auror robes appeared, and it wasn’t Harry, but Neville. 

“Er, bad time?” He looked uncertainly at the quill she’d been systematically shredding for the past hour. 

Quickly vanishing the mess, she shook her head. “Never a bad time for you. Nev. What’s up?” 

Neville jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna get out of here for lunch? I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve talked last, and I’ll go mad if I have to go to the canteen again.” 

Hermione sighed in relief. “You have impeccable timing, you know that, right?” She was already summoning her cloak as she stood. “Lets go!” 

Ten minutes later they were seated on the patio at a small bistro in Diagon Alley, and Hermione smiled fondly at one of her oldest friends. They’d both grown a far cry from that first train ride to Hogwarts, but they’d always made time for each other in their lives. 

They placed their orders and Hermione watched him fidget with his water glass. 

“What is it?” Neville looked startled, and Hermione looked pointedly at his hand. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?” 

“It’s nothing. I’ve just been thinking about you recently. I don’t even know if I told you I got a girlfriend.” His cheeks went pink, and for a moment he reminded her even more of the boy on the train with a lost toad. “We’re keeping it a bit quiet, at the moment, but I know you’d understand.” 

Hermione cocked her head. After breaking it off with Hannah Abbott about a year back, she didn’t think he’d been actively dating. “You can tell me anything, Nev. Who’s the lucky girl? Do I know her?” She couldn’t keep down the smile as his cheeks grew even pinker.

“Uh, yeah, actually. I hear you bumped into her a few weekends ago at the Broken Wand.” 

The blood drained from her face, replaced quickly with a burning rush. There were bits of that night that were fuzzy, and she couldn’t remember who she’d seen, other than Draco. 

“I.. Er… I don’t know... that is I don’t remember…” She stumbled over herself, and Neville nodded. 

“Pans said you probably wouldn’t.” 

The blood drained from her face a second time, leaving her dizzy and vaguely nauseous. “Pans? As in Pansy Parkinson?” He nodded solemnly, watching her closely. She swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that had crept up her throat. “That’s great, Nev. Is she good to you?” 

He cleared his throat. “She’s the best. But now you know why we’re keeping it quiet.” He paused, twisting his glass on the paper coaster. “I knew you’d understand... “ His eyes flicked up, meeting hers, and his meaning crashed over her like a cold wave. 

She felt ill, like the earth was falling out from under her. “She told you?” Hermione was on the brink of tears, her vision blurring, but she caught the sharp shake of his head. 

“No. He did. He showed up Friday night after…” He trailed off, and she blinked away the tears in time to see him rub the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “He told us what happened, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m more than happy to lock him up for assault if you want me to,” he added, and she wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, but she shook her head, her curls flying. 

“I just… I don’t… I’m trying not to think about it,” she mumbled, and Neville nodded. 

“I won’t say anything, I swear. I really just wanted you to know you’ve got me on your side. Pans even threatened to come warn you herself if he was going to keep pestering you.” 

Hermione momentarily forgot her discomfort from sheer shock at his revelation. He grinned at her gaping mouth, and shrugged. “I honestly think you’d like her, and I’m not just saying that. She doesn’t take any more shit than you do.” 

Hermione shook her head, and pushed her hair away from her face. She listened somewhat distractedly as Neville told her about how his path crossed with Pansy’s just after breaking up with Hannah last year and she’d surprised him by inviting him to dinner. They’d taken it slow, but after several months of friendship, he’d realized that she was everything he’d been missing with Hannah. 

Hermione let him continue to talk as they ate, and she had to admit, it sounded like Pansy was perfect for Neville. They struck a balance few could manage, and she found her mind wandering to the shop down the street. 

She was jerked from her thoughts as a familiar voice called, “My Miss Mercury!” Her head snapped up from the crumbs of her sandwich, and Neville looked confused as George approached. She couldn’t hide the delight at seeing him any better than Neville could hide the shock when George stooped to kiss her gently in greeting. 

“Neville! Nice to see you, mate.” George reached across the table to shake his hand, and Neville took it, returning his smile but glancing at Hermione, who shot him a “don’t say a word” look under George’s arm. 

“Nev I’m sorry. We got so caught up in talking about you I forgot to mention!” Hermione leaned into George’s side as his arm came around her shoulders. “We just told the family this weekend, so you’re one of the first to know.” 

“Good for you both,” Neville told them, flashing a genuine smile tinged with worry.

“I was going to stop by the shop on the way back to the ministry,” she told George. “I was going to ask if your offer to run interference still stood. I finished my book last night and thought we could swing past after dinner.” 

George grinned. “It would be my pleasure. I’ve gotta get back though, Lav has a healer appointment at one and you know how Ron gets.” He pressed a swift kiss to her forehead, and with a wave to Neville, disappeared through the crowd again. 

Neville waited until he was sure he had gone before leaning across the table. “When did that happen?” 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. “Friday night. Well, Saturday, really. I went to his flat after leaving the bookshop. I cried, he was sweet, we fell asleep. The next day we finally realized we’d both been dancing around each other for months now, I just thought he was with Angie, and he thought I saw him as a brother like I would Harry or Ron.”

“And what was ‘My Miss Mercury’ all about?” Neville looked shell shocked by the revelation, and Hermione blushed. “Mercury is the god of shopkeepers and tricksters. I was reading about Roman Mythology and he ran with it.” 

“That is….” Neville struggled to come up with an adequate description. “Extremely unexpected.” 

Hermione snorted. “Right, and you ending up with the Slytherin princess herself isn’t?” Neville chuckled at that. 

“Fair enough. Is there anything else we managed to miss, or are the surprises over for the day?” 

Hermione laughed, thankful for Neville’s easy going demeanor and ready acceptance. “I really hope that's everything. If not, I think we need to seriously reconsider how often we have lunch.” 


	16. Chapter 16

Draco swears under his breath as he comes out of the apothecary in Diagon Alley. They don’t carry half the herbs he needs for the experimental potion he is working on, and the sun is far too bright for the autumn day. He stops under the awning of Fortescue’s, looking up and down the street. So much has changed in the five years he’s been gone, and he isn’t sure where the other apothecary is located any longer. 

His eyes sweep past the bistro at first, but scarlet draws his eyes back. Sure enough, an auror sits at one of the tables, leaning over to shake hands with… Weasley. Obviously on break from the joke shop a few buildings down, he thinks, based on the ghastly magenta robes clashing against his ginger hair. And then the Weasel straightens, and Draco recognizes that it’s not just any auror, but Longbottom. And across from him, tucked under Weasley’s arm, peeks the luxurious curls of… “Granger,” he breathes, and he stands frozen, staring at the scene as it plays out in slow motion. From where he stands, he can only see Longbottom’s grin and the back of Weasley’s head tilt as he looks down at her, saying something Draco can’t hear, and is fairly certain he doesn’t want to know. And then he’s stooping down, and Draco can see her face now, her blissful smile as he kisses her forehead. 

Draco never did that, and he regrets it now. He never did a lot of things she deserved, and will never have the chance to give her. He finds he can’t hate Weasley any more than he could fault Longbottom if he were to curse him into oblivion. 

Weasley passes him on the street, and Draco turns away, as if to enter Fortescue’s. He doesn’t need this confrontation here or now. Draco just hopes that the Weasel understands the gift he has with Granger, and that Weasley doesn’t waste it like he did. 

He can’t help himself, looking back to the bistro, where Longbottom and Granger sit. They’re both smiling now, her cheeks tinged a delicate pink. She seems happy, happier than he could ever hope to see her up close. He swallows the lump in his throat, and takes off down the street, putting as much distance between them as quickly as he could. 

Half an hour later, he’s stepping out of the second apothecary. They have all the herbs he needs, and he’s eager to get home to his lab to test some of his hypotheses. Avoiding the bistro and the flamboyantly-coloured joke shop, he heads home, feeling as if he finally has a worthy purpose once more. 

By Saturday afternoon, he’s feeling discouraged and irritable. Taking care to send an owl first so he doesn’t stumble into the middle of another of their shagging sessions, Draco steps through the floo to find Pansy alone. He looks around warily, and Pansy rolls her eyes. 

“He won’t be here til later. He’s at the Weaselette’s quidditch game.” 

“Oh good, we can still call her that?” Draco drops into the same chair he occupied the previous weekend. 

“Only as long as Nev doesn’t hear. He’ll have your bollocks,” she laughs, and Draco scowls at her. “Hey, if you want to try to suck him off as an apology, go for it. But I doubt you’re as good as I am,” she says smugly, and Draco gags. 

“I will do a lot of things to a lot of blokes, but giving Longbottom a blowjob is strictly off the table.” 

“Glad we’re in agreement there, Malfoy.” Draco jumps as Longbottom enters the room behind him, and Pansy grins devilishly. “Hullo, love.” Draco again averts his eyes as the man greets Pansy with a kiss before settling onto the sofa beside her. “Please tell me you’re not just here to discuss your mouth on my dick.” 

Draco’s eye twitches, the man’s bold, blunt query at odds with his memories of a nervous boy that had whimpered every time Severus was on the same floor of the castle with him. 

“What about your mouth on his?” Pansy looks almost hopeful, and isn’t quelled by either of their glares. “It couldn’t hurt to ask,” she says, shrugging with a smirk. 

“Pansy I swear to Merlin and Morgana I don’t know why I still come to you,” Draco grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and sinking deep down into the armchair. 

“Because I’m fucking hilarious and nobody else could make my little Snap Dragon and Sweet Pea agree on anything as quickly as me.” 

Longbottom grumbles at the same time Draco snorts, and Draco can feel satisfaction rolling off her in waves. “Damn witch,” he mutters, refusing to open his eyes. “No,” he says, a bit louder. “I can’t get this bloody potion to work. No matter what I do with the Dragon’s blood it goes up in smoke. Finnigan would have a fucking field day.” Draco is irritated just thinking about it, but he can’t give up. He  _ won’t  _ give up. 

“Which potion?” Draco isn’t sure why Longbottom cares, last he checked he may have grown a spine and found some confidence somewhere, but he was still rubbish at brewing anything more complex than tea. 

“ Bilism alnadabat. It’s an old healing potion. ”

“What else is in it?” By now Draco can rattle off the ingredients in his sleep, so he indulges the man, if only to keep Pansy quiet. 

“Well there’s your problem. The dittany doesn’t react well to dragon’s blood. Something about them makes the dittany’s fumes twice as flammable.” Longbottom sounds rather pleased with himself, and Draco resists the urge to call him a dunderhead. 

“Obviously. I just told you everything I’ve tried has blown up in my face. But the bloody ancient Arabics were doing it for centuries!” Draco rubbed at his eyes before sitting up and looking around the room again. Pansy has yet again draped herself across Longbottom’s lap, though this time he’s the one running his fingers thoughtfully through her hair. Apparently spending time with the oversized house cat is rubbing off on her. 

They sit in silence for some time, Draco glaring at the large watercolour that takes up the majority of the wall behind the sofa, while Longbottom pets Pansy’s hair. Her hair is longer now than when they were at school, soft waves flowing over Longbottom’s legs like an inky waterfall. Their casual intimacy reminds Draco yet again what he missed with Granger, and he pushes the regret away, a reflex as natural as reaching for a snitch once had been. Now he was holding on to the splintering hope that he can make her whole once more by staying away. 

“Have you tried Socotra Dragon tree sap instead of actual dragons blood?” Longbottom breaks their companionable silence, and Draco is close to snapping now.

“Why would I use sap from some tree I’ve never heard of to replace one of the most potent magical substances known to wizardkind?” Draco sits up, glaring at Longbottom. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because the tree is native to Yemen, would be available to ancient Arabics, is known for its healing properties, oh and  _ Dracaena cinnabari  _ is also known as the  _ dragon blood tree.”  _ Longbottom deadpans, and Draco’s jaw drops. 

“Isn’t it sexy as hell when he does that? He’s a kick arse Auror but he’s also a Master Herbologist.” Draco swears he can see the bloody hearts in Pansy’s eyes, but he doesn’t have time for her mooning. 

“I have to go.” 

Draco is already halfway through the door when Longbottom yells, “you’re welcome!” 

Draco pauses, a ‘thank you’ on his lips, but he hears Pansy’s giggle, and then her voice, obviously raised for him to hear saying, “you’ve definitely earned a blowjob.” He gags again, and is sure to slam the door a bit harder than necessary behind him in answer. Pansy can thank him. Draco has research to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Arabic. Google Translate may have fumbled this one but I have no way of actually knowing, so if you speak Arabic and I got this horribly, horribly wrong, please, by all means let me know. 
> 
> Otherwise, Google Translate tells me bilism alnadabat loosely translates into scar balm. 
> 
> The Dragon's Blood Tree is an ACTUAL tree that originates in Yemen- I didn't make that up. Mariana_Monteverde gets all the credit for finding it, though.


	17. Chapter 17

Being with Hermione was a dream. And I’m not just saying that. She fit so seamlessly into my life it was like she’d been a missing piece of a puzzle. It felt so natural to reach for her hand as we walked and to stretch out on the sofa with her curled up beside me. 

We didn’t spend every waking minute together those first weeks but— well, maybe we did. Except while she was working at the ministry. Even forcing myself to take the time for a shower and a wank was difficult because I just wanted to be with her. Though I’d be lying if I said most of the time those two things didn’t coincide. 

I spent an inordinate amount of my time in the shower with my cock in my hand those first few weeks, stroking and pulling while I thought about Hermione’s soft body against mine. It wasn’t difficult, if I shut my eyes and thought of the water trickling down my chest and back as her fingers… Honestly she drove me mad with feather-light touches while she was reading or while we were discussing whatever subject it was that we stumbled across. So I could definitely imagine her fingers running over my skin; down my stomach and across my cock. 

With the roar of the water dampening any other sound, I could easily imagine her breathing in my ear, my name on her lips. I always liked the way she said my name— maybe because every time she did it proved that she was one of the few that could tell me and Freddie apart. Maybe it was because even when it held a hint of annoyance, it was always overcome with affection. Whatever the reason… it was easy to allow my mind to wander, to imagine what it would be like to fuck her. 

Making a tight fist and pressing slowly in, panting with each inch… then loosening my grip slightly and speeding up, twisting around the head before coming back down. Cupping and tugging my bullocks with the other hand, I’d think of her hands, warm after cradling a cup of tea sliding around my neck, pressing her body against mine… Thinking of the way she’d moan so prettily when I kissed her neck  _ just right _ was nearly always enough to drive me over the edge, my release paining the shower wall in white and leave me gasping. 

And that was  _ before  _ she grew bold enough to straddle me while we snogged on my sofa, her skirt riding up those smooth thighs… 

But that’s really all beside the point. Hermione was a goddess and I can’t even say she belonged to me because the reality was that I belonged to  _ her.  _ She was a force to be reckoned with and I couldn’t do enough to worship her. Which is why when she jokingly said that I should be worshipping Mercury for the business and for the many pranks Freddie and I had pulled off over the years, I bestowed the title upon the one person that deserved it. And she became My Miss Mercury. She fucking glowed every time I called her my goddess, and I watched her  _ bloom _ as I painstakingly undid each of the knots that some other bastard had tied around her. 

It was a Thursday, the day I stood behind the counter, daydreaming of an evening with My Miss Mercury, and the one person in the bloody country that could have spoiled my mood walked in the door. 

Look, I’m not saying I would capture someone in a jar for testing purposes- that would be highly unethical and kinda more My Miss Mercury’s game- but when that ferret stepped into our store, it was a very,  _ very  _ appealing option. Like a lab rat, but…  _ prettier _ . 

He managed to catch us when it was just me and Freddie, which I didn’t believe was coincidence. Ron would have hexed his bollocks off. I was tempted, honest, but he looked terrified under that Slytherin mask they seemed to hand out to the snakes the night of the sorting. Bloody annoying, but I’d faced enough of them with a beater’s bat in hand to know what Slytherin fear looked like. 

“Malfoy.” Fred basically read my mind and took point, which can I say, makes the twin thing worth it, even if people still can’t manage to tell us apart, even sans one ear. It never really bothered us, but sometimes it was nice to be just George, rather than half of the duo. But that’s beside the point. We were talking about the ferret. 

He looked between us, doing that thing people do when they can’t decide who they’re actually talking to. He settled on Freddie, which was fine by me. Less talking meant less of a chance for me to let loose on the arsehole. As such, I crossed my arms and gave him the stare I’d perfected instead of listening to Wood’s long-winded strategy meetings. 

“Weasley.” I was a bit surprised his voice didn’t come out in a squeak, but it sounded steady. “You have something l need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out for the love I’ve been getting on this one- sorry for the short chapter after such a long wait but more is coming soon 💙


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back!

He apparates directly to Diagon Alley, rushing into the apothecary. It’s nearly empty as it’s nearly closing time, but the witch at the counter is being very attentive. She leans over the counter, her ample cleavage on full display, one finger twisting around a fire-engine red curl. 

“Can I help you?” She says it suggestively, and had he not been focused on the task at hand, he may have considered the offer. He’s never been keen on redheads but it’s obvious she's probably blonde under the dye. 

“ _ Dracaena cinnabari  _ sap. Do you know if anyone in London carries it?” Draco gets straight to the point. Longbottom had been infuriatingly correct, and everything he’d read so far led him to the conclusion that he needs this if he’s going to succeed in his endeavor. 

The blatantly false redhead settles on her elbows, giving him quite the view while he waits for her to think, and tapping one pink-polished nail on the counter between them. “I know someone was looking for it a while back, but I want to say we connected them with the only shop in the city that uses it. They import it directly, and were willing to give him a deal on it.” 

“Alright. Which apothecary is it?” Draco is cautiously optimistic-- He’s developed a decent working relationship with all the major apothecaries over the last several months. 

“Oh it’s not an apothecary.” The girl smiles, straightening, her eyes bright. “It’s the Weasley brothers down at Weasley Wizard Wheezes!” 

Every bit of hope he had is dashed by a girl with nice tits and a big smile, because of all the people it could be, it’s the one family he doesn’t want to go anywhere near.  _ There has to be another option,  _ he muses. “And you’re certain no one else carries it?” 

The girl looks confused. “Pretty sure. But they’re super nice, I’m sure—“ 

“Thank you for your time,” he interrupts, leaving Red looking decidedly disappointed. He stands in the quickly darkening street, cursing his luck, wondering if he can get his mother to buy it in Paris and owl it to him… But he’s nearly positive the Ministry would interfere, and by the time it passed through customs it wouldn’t be viable any longer. 

He mulls it over as he returns home, and over the next several days, always coming up with the same conclusion, which is how, over a week later, he finds himself being stared down by a pair of Weasleys. He'd been careful to wait until he saw Ron leave-- just to be sure Hermione didn't wander in while he is here, but it gives him little confidence. The one closest to him looked just a hair less likely to try to remove his intestines through his nose, so Draco focuses on him. 

“I was informed that you’re the only importer of  _ Dracaena cinnabari  _ sap in Britain. I”m willing to pay a premium for some.” 

The one closest to Draco cocks his head, looking hard at Draco, as if he’s going to sprout a second head at any moment. The one behind him crosses his arms, and Draco has a hard time believing these are the same two that he used to face off across a quidditch pitch with. There is no sparkle of good humor that they used to sport, no hint of a mischievous smile. 

The one just slightly further away snorts and turns away, leaving his twin to stare Draco down like a misbehaving child. He returns only a moment later, though, with a bottle of what looked like bright green tablets of some sort. 

“We’re fresh out and won’t be getting any in for the next several months. But here. If you can reduce it out of these, be my guest.” He tosses the bottle (rather harder than necessary) at Draco, who catches it deftly. Holding it up, he reads the label. 

_ U-No-Poo.  _ He feels the blood drain from his face, and his hands go cold. The Dark Lord has been dead for years, but he remembers his temper all too well, and he cringes internally at the hell that would have been raised over something so flippant. “Is this some sort of joke?”    
  
“Gred here is nicer than I was going to be, but no. The sap is the main ingredient.” The other twin hasn’t taken his eyes off Draco since he entered the shop.

“How many can I get?” Draco shakes the bottle, the tablets rattling against the glass constraints of the jar. 

“We have a strict five-product limit for ferrets and their associates,” the closer one says quickly, and the other twin’s lips twitch. 

“Now Forge is being the nice one. I was going to tell you to take the one and get lost.” 

“I’ll take five, then,” Draco says calmly. Rising to their baiting won’t do him any good. This is too important to allow his ego to get in the way. Not again. The twins don’t say a word as the one collects four more bottles and Draco pays the other. 

  
He thinks he’s made it out free and clear when the one dubbed “Gred” (he honestly couldn’t tell if it was Fred or George, he’d never cared enough to learn to tell them apart anyway) called after him, “Shall we give Hermione your best, then? Or did you leave that on the floor of your manor, too?”    
  
Draco doesn’t stop, pushing out the door and walking calmly away. When he gets home, his hands are shaking and the bile is rising too quickly in his throat to stop the heaves that shake his frame. But he deserves the twisting in his stomach and the burning in his throat and eyes. 


	19. Chapter 19

I honestly can’t fathom how the ferret got Neville in on it, but sure enough, he came to the counter with five boxes of U-No-Poo. That was probably the breaking point. 

I could understand Zabini, and the pug-faced Parkinson bird. But if Neville Fucking Longbottom was involved, I needed to know why. 

So I did the logical thing. I followed him. 

For an Auror, he was surprisingly easy to follow. Maybe he just didn’t care. I don’t know, but when he trailed into the same bistro I’d seen him at with Hermione a few weeks back, I was surprised to see him toss the bag to Malfoy, and settle in next to Pugface Parkingson. I wouldn’t have believed it if i hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, and even then I had to wonder if it was someone else with Polyjuice. 

I watched for a minute before I couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Should I be calling Harry or…?” I dropped into the chair on Neville’s other side, grinning at the rather odd trio. I was rather surprised that of the three of them, it wasn’t the Slytherins that continued unaffected with their tea. Fucking Longbottom didn’t even flinch, but Parkinson’s eyebrows shot up and Malfoy looked like he’d been caught with his paw in the ferret-treat jar. Which, he kinda had. 

“You let him follow you? What kind of Auror are you,” the ferret hissed at Neville, who shrugged noncommittally, his arm still perplexingly around Parkinson’s shoulders. 

“A pretty decent one, from what I’m told. But what I wasn’t told was that I needed the whole cloak and dagger routine.” Neville smiled blandly, and Malfoy developed two pink spots high on his cheekbones. 

“You’ve been spending too much bloody time with Slytherins,” he hissed, and Parkinson’s expression melted into unadulterated pride. 

“Isn’t it just the best?” She pinned Neville with a look I could really only describe as ravenous and I was a tad worried they’d end up shagging on the table if left to their own devices. 

“Hermione said you’d landed a bird but I wouldn’t have bloody believed it.” That seemed to do the trick, and Parkinson’s razor-edge gaze landed on me. 

“Yes, yes, he’s sullying his reputation. I’ve heard.” Her voice was even colder than her eyes, but I couldn’t help the laugh that left me. 

“Sullying his reputation? Are you mad? The man could go dancing down High Street in nothing but a top hat and they’d still be singing him praises. Nah I just wouldn’t have believed you came off your high horse long enough to climb him like a beanpole.” 

Her jaw dropped, and Neville went a rather satisfying shade of pink. Man, it had been too long since I’d had drinks with the man, and I think I owed him for that one. It was just too fun goading the snakes. 

“So I have a hard time believing you’re getting a refined enough version of the sap from these,” I nudged the boxes of U-No-Poo still on the table. And yet whatever you need it for is obviously important enough not just for you to try, but to rope my mate Neville here into it. Talk. If you’re lucky I’ll listen. If you’re really lucky, I’ll buy it. If you’re luckier than a niffler in a jewelry store, I might convince my dear brothers to hear you out as well.” 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at me, much like he had a dozen times across a quidditch pitch. But he squared his shoulders, and much as he had in the shop the week before, seemed to center himself with a deep breath. 

“I’m working on a new potion. Well, technically it’s an old potion, one ancient Arabians used to heal their battle wounds. It’s been altered so many times though that it doesn’t do what the original formulation was made to do… that is, it doesn’t heal cursed wounds any longer.” 

He paused, his eyes flicking to where my hair hid the hole where my ear should be. If he was checking to see which one I was, or if he already knew, I wasn’t sure. But I wasn’t worried about my own injury.

“But you think by using the original formulary, you can do it? Cure all cursed wounds?” Just last night I’d accidentally brushed against Hermione’s arm, and watched as the blood drained from her face. She didn’t complain, but I knew it hurt like blazes. I could live without an ear. But if this would take away her pain… 

“Most of them. Certainly any of the ones inflicted by any…” He paused, swallowing hard and looking sharply away. “Followers.” 

I eyed him for a long minute, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. Neville and Parkinson had stayed quiet, so I turned to them. “How do you two play into this?” 

Parkinson glared at me, but true to form, Neville answered without missing a beat. “Pansy’s his best friend. He came to her for help, and I was there. I think it’s worth trying. It could help a lot of people.” He gave me a pointed look, and her name didn’t need to be said. He thought it could help my Goddess. 

I turned back to the ferret. “Why didn’t you just tell us that when you came in?” 

He scoffed. “Would you have believed me?” 

“No. But it probably would have saved you some time.” I stood, straightened my robes, and looked him over for good measure. “Be at the shop 8 am sharp Monday morning.” 

His eyes grew comically round. “You’re going to let me buy some?” 

I laughed. “Oh hell no. I’m not letting it out of my damn sight. But I’ll supply it and let you brew in our workroom until I decide if you’re worth the investment or not.” I reached out and shook Neville’s hand. “We’ll do drinks soon, yeah?” He agreed while Malfoy pouted, but I didn’t care. I left the cafe, and prepared to face my brothers with my decision, armed with the only argument I needed. It was for Hermione. 


End file.
